


Carpe Retractum

by nucodiangelo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Harry Potter - Freeform, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, POV Harry Potter, Panic Attacks, Pining Harry, Post - Deathly Hallows, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-02-17 02:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13067109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nucodiangelo/pseuds/nucodiangelo
Summary: Or six times Harry Potter ignores the fact that he's in love with Draco Malfoy, and the one time he can't.





	1. One - Second Year

**Author's Note:**

> the title is a spell from Chamber of Secrets, "Produces a supernatural rope from the caster's wand, which will pull a target toward the caster. From the Latin carpe, meaning 'to seize' and retracto, meaning 'I draw back'." Which seems rather fitting.  
> I've tried to proof read this a million times, but be aware that english isn't my first language!  
> The whole thing about magical structure is a 100% inspired by the amazing gyzym's work 'What We Pretend We Can't See' which is one of my favorite Drarry works ever, so go give it a read!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was made aware of the fact that google wasn't around until 98 (stupid me), so in this fic muggle technology is a bit ahead of its time

It’s a grey and rainy day, which Harry supposes is rather fitting, all things considered. Ron doesn’t want to come with him to the library, mutters angrily about how it’s absolutely horrible to make them write an assignment for History of Magic class as soon as the semester starts, and more importantly, when their best friend is in the hospital wing. Harry leaves the common room mid-rant, not because he doesn’t completely agree, but because he knows, deep down, that Hermione would kill them both if she knew they were slacking of school work for her sake.

So he sits down, slumps down rather, at a table in the back of the library. It’s the table where one of the legs sometimes decides it doesn’t want to be there anymore, and at some point during the next hours the whole table might collapse and spew Harry’s work all over the floor. Hermione hates the table, hates something cluttering or messing up her work and books, and the thought sends Harry’s thoughts sprawling downwards.

It’s in moment like these where Harry is as scared of the situation he’s in, the role he plays in it all, as he should be. Things never seem too horrible or scary, until something horrible or scary happens to one of his friends. This nasty, sinking feeling in his chest reminds him of a year ago, seeing Ron’s lifeless body hit the floor when he sacrificed himself, in the chessboard chamber when they were trying to retrieve the philosopher’s stone. Remembers the noise, the terrible, nasty noise, of the Queen putting him out of the game. Remembers his own heart stopped beating, if only for seconds, and Hermione’s horrible scream ringing in his ears. And now Hermione, brilliant and bright, is laying in a hospital bed, where’s she’s been since Christmas break, all because of Harry. He thinks, a little stubbornly, that it should have been him, both times, _always_ , because _it isn’t the same when it’s him_ , it doesn’t matter as much. Moreover, somewhere, deep down, a dark and self-deprecating place, he thinks that if he hadn’t come with Hagrid, all those months ago, to Hogwarts, his friends probably wouldn’t have suffered, at all.

The assignment is 500 words on magical structures, with a focus on magical housing, and Harry’s so bored by his third page of his ‘History of Magic’ book that he kind of wishes for the table to fall apart under him, only for a distraction. Hermione always goes on about how important it is for him to read, this book especially, because he didn’t grow up in a magical family and needs as much help as he can to get by in his classes. But it doesn’t help much, really, because there’s so many words and names and historical moments Harry has never heard of before, that he can’t quite keep up with what the book is trying to tell him about repairing spells and house personalities. It all seems like a rather big bunch of rubbish, Harry thinks. Like something wizards might tell their younger sibling, right before they start their first year, just so they’ll make a fool out of themselves telling their new friends about fucking house personalities, and bonds between homeowner and the structure.

No one’s around to hear him, muttering mid-yawn, “I would kill for the chance to just Google all of this”.

There’s a sudden noise from the row of bookcases to Harry’s left, and it startles him, and the table, which loses its leg before Harry can even register what’s happening, and he buckles over, with his books, onto the floor. His chin hits the floor so hard, he’s afraid his teeth may shatter, but they don’t, thank heavens. Groaning, he tries to pick himself up, only to find that the person, the one who made this all happen, is helping him. His knee hurts a little, and he may have chipped a tooth, but otherwise he feels fine, and is just about to tell the person just that, when he’s pushed away by a repulsed looking Malfoy. 

“Ugh, Potter! I did _not_ know it was you…” He says, because he’s an absolute git, and can’t just be relatively ok person for two seconds, “If I knew I wouldn’t have –“ His eyes, gray and cold, narrow at Harry for a long moment, as if saying ‘this never happened, I never helped you. Tell anyone and you’re the next victim’ and it reminds Harry of everything.

He growls at Malfoy, something he only seems to do at Malfoy anyways, and goes to gather up his things and walk away.

“What’s the matter Potter?” Malfoy’s a big pretentious git, and still hasn’t left when Harry stands up again, his hands full of books and parchment, “Oh, what? You haven’t got your helpful mudblood side-kick with you, so this assignment’s got your panties in a knot?” As soon the words leave his mouth, something falls over his face, and his stance goes a little lopsided, but Harry’s too angry to register it, doesn’t even start to think of what it might mean.

Of course Malfoy would make fun of the fact that Hermione, whom he’ll take any chance to call a mudblood since they got back to school this year, is in the hospital wing, near death. Harry knows, deep down, that she’s not near death, only petrified, but some irrational scared part of him wonders if, maybe, she is dying, maybe she will die. Malfoy is so evil, and some part of Harry still thinks he might be the one who opened the chamber, even though they ruled him out of their list of suspects weeks ago.

Harry’s just about to slam his shoulder into Draco’s on his way past him, even though Malfoy showed up after summer break about a head taller than Harry, when Malfoy stops him, grabs his elbow in a harsh grip, teeth gritted as he says, “Potter, I – I didn’t think … I didn’t really think that sentence through.” And Harry almost forgets to breathe for a few seconds, because is Malfoy apologizing? He is. And not only is he apologizing, _to Harry_ , but for saying something horrible about Hermione, _who’s muggle born_ , and this might be the best moment of Harry’s _entire life_.

Malfoy, who must see the look on Harry’s face, grimaces, “Sod off, Potter!” He always spits Harry’s name out, as if it physically hurts him to say it, as if it is nothing he wants more than to get rid of it. And Harry, who feels like all he really has left of his father, except the impossible hair, and his deep reddish skin color, is his last name, hates the way Malfoy says it. “I still hate you, and Granger, and the ginger annoyance you call your best friend. I just meant… Oh, I don’t know what I meant! That it’s not really something to use against you, is it?” He sneers, because he’s Malfoy, and he can’t, for the sake of his pureblood-pride, let Harry know that maybe he finds this whole ‘heir of Slytherin’ thing a little scarier the more it continues, just like everyone else at school.

Harry doesn’t really know how to respond to that, because no, it really isn’t, but it's Malfoy, and what are you supposed to say to that, when it comes from Malfoy? He’s standing very close to him, and Malfoy is still holding his elbow in a death grip, and Harry’s not sure if he’s aware of that or not, if its intentional. There’s a wild look to his eyes, and for the first time since Harry’s known him, he looks his age. Twelve, and maybe a little scared, and trying too hard to be like his father. And Harry, who’s tired and upset, and has had to grow up too fast, lets his guard down, doesn’t feel like fighting with him right now. So he says nothing, just nods his head, stiffly, and softly rips his arm out of Draco’s hold. “Er, ok, Malfoy.” He says, with no certain sound to it, and starts to walk away.

“Potter...” Malfoy’s saying it differently, all of a sudden. Harry’s not sure if it’s a good different, it’s no longer a spit of letters, but it makes him twist around to look at him so fast he feels like his neck snaps. It’s slow and irritated, but most of all it sounds exhausted. Malfoy looks it too, and a little embarrassed, maybe. “I could… Oh, I can’t quite believe I’m saying this!” He throws his hands in the air, and Harry finds it a little dramatic, even for a Slytherin, “But! If you promise to never mention it again and never bother me again,” Harry wants to interrupt him to point out that Harry hadn’t done anything of such, and maybe to punch him a little, “I’ll… Ugh, I cannot believe it… I’ll help you! Ok!”

Harry, who raises his eyebrows so far up it gives him an immediate headache, doesn’t have time to ask the hundreds of questions that pop into his head at this, “With the assignment, you wanker… Oh Merlin's beard, Potter! Magical housing!” Malfoy’s voice is so high pitched, it rings in Harry’s ears, and he’s waving his arms around frantically, and Harry wonders why Pince hasn’t come to yell at them yet. “The rest, all of it, you can bloody well handle on your own, can’t you.”

And that’s how it happens. They sit, at different table because Malfoy makes such a fuss about it, and calls Harry stupid using about fifteen different words for sitting at that table in the first place, and start working. Harry doesn’t know why he takes Malfoy up on the offer, really. Maybe he’s desperate to finish it, or maybe he feels like he owes it to Hermione to get a good grade on this assignment, since it’s his fault she’ll die, maybe. They don’t exchange a single word for the first thirty minutes, and Harry knows it’s been exactly that amount of time because a panicked voice in the back of his head keeps counting. Then, when Harry cannot possibly handle it anymore, and has half the mind to just get up and leave without a word, Malfoy looks at him. Without turning his head, his eyes turn to look at Harry, and Harry doesn’t dare to turn his head either, isn’t sure he should.

“So…” Malfoy sounds like he’s forcing the word out, and it’s almost worse than when he’s spitting out Harry’s last name. “What is that thing you mentioned earlier? I bet it’s a muggle thing, since I’ve never heard the name before in my life, but what is it and why is it so great you would ‘kill for it’? What could possibly be so great that the brave, Harry Potter, the boy who lived, would do such a crime? It would land you quite some time in Azkaban you know, murder, and I can’t quite imagine what muggle invention would be worth all of that.”

Harry wonders, for a few seconds, if Malfoy ever is able to speak without babbling, and then wonders if Malfoy has noticed that Harry hasn’t done any of the speaking tonight.

“Er, what?” Is all he really is able to say, and when Malfoy turns to him with a bewildered expression, it pushes him to continue, maybe just to escape the possibility of even more babbling, “Google?”

Malfoy shuts his mouth into a tight line and nods his head, and it’s the first time, Harry thinks, he’s shut, ever, probably.

“It’s… Do you know what a computer is?” Harry knows the answer before he even asks, really, but asks it anyways.

“No, please tell me, oh great Potter, what a computer is!” 

Harry doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes, or mention the fact that Malfoy mispronounced the word, just sighs and tries to think of a way to explain this all to a boy who, in muggle terms, grew up quite Amish, “It’s a muggle machine, which they mostly use for… typing? I guess. And Google is this application on it, on the internet, which… I’m not even going to go into, so don’t ask! You use Google to search for stuff, anything… And it’s like… A bunch of books squeezed into these machines, but you don’t have to read it all because you can just search for the exact thing you are looking for!” Harry’s voice goes a little hoarse by the end, and he realizes how little he’s been using it these past hours. He’s pretty content with his answer, and how impressive it all sounds, but when he looks at Malfoy, he thinks maybe not. Malfoys brows are furrowed, his mouth turned down at the corners (and Harry, for some reason he can’t quite pinpoint, becomes very, horribly, aware of how pink Malfoy’s lips are against his pale skin), and he’s looking at Harry as if he is the biggest piece of dirt on his windscreen.

“Potter…” He sighs, “Potter, we have spells for that… To find the exact book you need or the exact word in a book or subject or… Potter how are you passing your classes?” And for a second there, Malfoy sounds almost… Sad for him? Fond? But no that can’t be right.

Malfoy shows him then, the spellwork that works, pretty much, as Google does, and Harry is rather impressed by the way Malfoy just flicks his wand so effortlessly, barely needs to mutter the word to make the spell work. Harry’s always thought magic is stunning, the light and the effect, the way people do it so differently, the way different people’s magic feels different. However, watching Malfoy do it, so breathlessly, effortlessly, makes Harry’s toes tingle, and he’s not quite sure he likes it. Malfoy finds the exact information Harry needs in ‘History of Magic’, and they go back into, quite comfortable, if Harry must admit, silence.

It doesn’t take him too long to read through, and by the end he’s rather… flabbergasted, would be the right word.

“Malfoy… Your house –“                                                                                              

“The manor” Malfoy interrupts, seemingly without thinking, and furrows his brows at Harry, whom pretends not to notice.

“Is it… Well, is it alive?” Harry asks, because he hasn’t been in the magic world for a long time, but kind of figured he would have heard about his classmates’ houses having personalities? Feelings? He doesn’t quite understand, but he answer is pretty clear upon Malfoy’s face.

“I’m not sure if alive is the right world, Potter.” There’s a weird tone to it, “But… Yeah, quite.”

Harry, who’s too interested in the subject of the conversation, doesn’t notice how Malfoy is looking at him with that same expression on his face. Sadness? Fondness? (Maybe he just finds Harry quite pathetic, which seems more likely than the rest.)

“How?”

Malfoy seems to think of it for a while, glances down to the page of the book that’s currently open in front of him, “I haven’t really thought about it before, because it’s always been that way, for me, so there hasn’t been anything to question… But, magic is alive? Isn’t it? And wizards uses magic to fix things in their houses, and the house kind of just… Absorbs the magic, which is rather interesting, isn’t it?” Harry must look as lost as he feels, and Malfoy takes another long moment to think, “It’s like… Hogwarts! The staircases here, right? They move, and that must be because someone used magic to move them so often that the castle kind of figured that, ‘you know what? I’m going to move the stairs, every now and then, because these people need me too’, and it just stuck, because magic has personality.” Then he seems to remember something, important from the look of it, and casts the spell he showed Harry earlier, and from somewhere deep in the library, a book comes flying. It lands on the tabletop with a loud smack, and Harry winces and thinks, for sure, that Pince is going to show up out of nowhere to tell them off, but she doesn’t. It’s ‘Hogwarts, A History’, which Hermione has been carrying around with her all year, trying to figure out where the chamber of secrets might be hidden, and it makes Harry’s heart ache a little to look at, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to notice.

He flips the book open, as if he knows exactly what he’s looking for, and doesn’t need magic to help him. “Here!” He turns the book towards Harry to let him read, and it’s some story about the staircases for the dormitories. Apparently, decades ago, the boys kept sneaking up into the girls’ dormitories to catch them changing, and the girls had been so distressed, that the castle had taken the case into its own hands and made the stairs turn into slides whenever a boy tried to climb them. Harry remembers Fred and George saying something about that a few weeks ago, and Harry had figured it had just been one of the girls casting some spell, but it had been the castle?

Malfoy doesn’t let Harry react, “In the manor, well it isn’t the most…” He stops himself, seems to remember whom he’s talking too, and just doesn’t continue the sentence, “There’s this bathroom on the second floor, my mom’s bathroom, and she used to do ice baths all the time, for her muscles, to reduce swelling or something. And she did it so often, over a period of time, that the manor eventually just knew what she came in there for, and now the bath doesn’t produce hot water anymore, no matter the spells we try! As soon as you turn it on, the bath fills with ice cubes, and every wizarding house has these kind of quirks where it’s just tried to help it’s Masters and it has just stuck that way, and may never turn back to how it was!” He’s babbling again, and Harry, who’s not a boy of many words, wonders how it must be to be inside Malfoy’s brain. Wonders, if there’s constant babbling in there, how Malfoy has so much to say all the time.

Harry used to think, back when he first came to Hogwarts and everything was new and liberating, that if he ever lost his magic, he would… That it would be the worst thing imaginable, and he, probably, wouldn’t be able to live without it. Because Harry came from an abusive home, from absolutely nothing, to magic, which was absolutely everything. And he thought, quite a few times, that if he lost it, there wouldn’t be much else to live for. (Not that Harry really can think of something that can make magic disappear… Because it isn’t really something you have, but something you are, and Harry is.) Magic was the first happiness Harry had ever felt in his life. It brought him to Hogwarts, to his friends, to his home and his purpose, and maybe most importantly, it brought him closer to his parents. But, watching Malfoy talk about magic, the way magic is all he’s ever known, Harry realizes something. Because maybe, just maybe, loosing magic _wouldn’t_ be death for Harry, whom grew up muggle and knows how it feels to live without it, but it certainly would be for someone like Malfoy. Malfoy grew up with nothing but magic, the same as his parents, and their parents before that, his entire bloodline are wizards. And pure-bloods don’t care to learn about anything muggle, so they depend fully and wholeheartedly on magic, and Harry’s not sure there would be a possible life for them without it. He’s sitting here, next to his sworn-enemy, who’s talking about magic, and who loves magic so much, and suddenly it’s Harry’s turn to feel sad for Malfoy. Harry would survive, Malfoy wouldn’t.

There’s a feeling in his chest now, that he’s thought all these thoughts, it’s fluttering and uncomfortable, and Harry’s not quite sure he’s ever felt a feeling quite like it before. It’s comparable to the feeling he had the first time he went to Diagon Alley, or when Ron sat next to him on the train, or when the whole Gryffindor table erupted into cheer when he was sorted. Malfoy’s still talking, but Harry’s forgotten to pay attention, and is just watching him, in a way he never really has. He’s shocked to find that the anger and hate he always feels around Malfoy, is, well not gone, but different, like a dull buzz in his chest. And the fluttering, uncomfortable (horrible, oh so horrible) feeling in his chest won’t leave.

Malfoy, who seems to notice the weird look on Harry’s face, looks a little uncomfortable, “What? Potter, do I have something on my face? Have your last brain cells, after years of holding on for dear life, finally died? Are you having a stroke?” But there’s no bite to his words, just confusion, and he’s about to open his mouth again, probably to say something offensive about Harry’s face, when Pince shows up, out of nowhere, per usual.

“The library is closing, boys.” She looks like she wants to comment on the strange duo, but doesn’t, just sends Harry a funny look. “I suggest Mr. Malfoy put the books back.” Then she disappears, and Harry isn’t sure if it’s just too dark in here to see her leave, or if she apparated.

Harry turns to Malfoy to say something; he’s not sure what, but feels like he needs to say _something._ However, Malfoy’s already half way down the rows of shelves, books in hand and posture cold, and Harry sighs and thinks that everything is back to normal. The strange feeling is his chest hasn’t subdued, and his hearts beating too fast, and he feels rather dizzy.

They both, embarrassed by the nights events, and maybe too proud, and definitely too stupid, never speak of it, that night in the library second year, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> would love to hear your thoughts!


	2. Two - Fourth Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning – Panic attacks – Mentions of abuse  
> Sometimes I struggle with the thin line between correctly informind about – describing – (and loving my own, as a part of me) mental illness, and romanticizing it, both in my writing and in my everyday life, but I’m doing my damn best.

Harry’s dreaming about dragons, hoards of sleeping Hungarian Horntails. They’re bloody stunning, Harry thinks, and even though he knows he’s dreaming (he can tell, most of the time) he doesn’t dare to make a sound. They’re all laying spewed out on a rocky hill, overlooking the ocean, all snorting angrily and flapping their tales in their sleep. On the other hand, Harry, who doesn’t really know the difference between angry and non-angry dragon-snorts, supposes dragon’s may not have too much to be angry about while sleeping, really.

And Harry doesn’t really catch the moment where it all goes wrong in the dream, but suddenly there’s dark shadows with silver faces – or maybe they’re masks – everywhere, and the dragons are asleep, defenseless, and Harry wants to scream to wake them up so they can fight back, defend themselves, even if it means he’ll get caught in the crossfire. But before he can so much as open his mouth, a flash of green light hits his chest.

Harry wakes up gasping for breath, clutching his chest. Next to his bed, Ron stirs, mutters something in his sleep, but doesn’t wake up. The rest of the dormitory is awfully quite, and suddenly Harry feels rather small and trapped.

Hermione calls it, this _feeling_ Harry gets all the time, anxiety. Ron always dismisses the thought of mental illnesses because apparently, wizards can cure any disease, and if there isn’t a spell for it, well then it can’t be a real thing. Normally, when he says stuff like that, Hermione will look at him with a hopelessly fond look on her face, and say, “Ron, what an awfully ableist thing of you to say… also, you’re dyslexic!”

Harry desperately wishes there was a spell for it. To make him feel less unhinged. To fix him.

Harry grabs the marauders’ map, because, for some reason, it usually grounds him, and he isn’t quite sure what it is about it; If it’s just a distraction from whatever’s making his blood boil and his mind buzz, or, possibly, if it’s the reason of _why_ this map was made.  Harry never dared to ask Sirius or Remus, scared it would bring them down to think about, and when he aired the question for Ron and Hermione, the latter had looked at him the way she does whenever he says something awfully sad.

(“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” She asked, glancing at Ron as if to confirm it, but he looked just a lost as Harry felt, and she sighed, tucking a strand of curly hair behind her ear. “Well, Remus is the reason! Obviously! He probably wasn’t the easiest to keep an eye on during the full moon, so the boys, to protect Remus and the students at Hogwarts, made the map… To keep track of everyone during full moons, and they became animagi so that Remus wouldn’t feel so alone.” She paused, glanced at Harry, as if checking on him and then “And well… because they were a pack, weren’t they?”

The answer had made Harry so happy, so _proud_ , he teared up a little, which Hermione, of course, noticed. She gave him a sweet, sad, smile and a pat on the head.)

He doesn’t expect much from it now, maybe a few teachers on night patrol, maybe the house elves preparing the great hall for breakfast, or Filch lurking (Filch argues that he never lurks, whenever someone confronts him on it, but he always lurks, looking for students to bust. It’s a rather unhealthy obsession, trying to bring down school children, isn’t it?) But to Harry’s surprise, Draco Malfoy’s and Blaise Zabini’s names pop up not far from the Gryffindor common room. Harry’s reflex though is, rather weirdly, to remember the statue just down the hall where older students go to make out behind, and a weird sinking feeling catches him a little of guard. Then he remembers, finally, that both Malfoy and Zabini are both pure-blood and evil and _boys_ , and are probably lurking, trying to bring Harry’s downfall, because what else could they possibly be doing out of bed and at this part of the castle at this hour?

Deciding that, yes, it is Harry’s job to catch and stop them; he gets out of bed and slips on his invisibility cloak. He debates waking Ron and bringing him along, but deflects the thought quickly, because ever since the troubles between the Ministry and Arthur Weasley after the Quidditch World Cup this summer, Ron gets funny whenever Malfoy’s mentioned. He also debates waking Hermione, but he has, after four years at Hogwarts, still no idea how to reach her in the girls’ dormitories. So he grabs his slippers, which have golden snitches on them, a birthday gift from Sirius, and sneaks out.

He can hear them before he sees then. Hushed, angry, whispers, carries down the hall and Harry doesn’t have to get too close to hear what they are talking about. Zabini looks tired, dark circles under his eyes and mouth in a pout, and Harry can’t see Malfoy’s face, but his hair is perfectly done and he’s still wearing his uniform, as if he never went to bed. Harry realizes, that he doesn’t really have to see Malfoy’s face to see how tired he looks. He can see it in his stance, the way he doesn’t use his hands when he talks, the way his head kind of slumps forwards every now and then, as if he’s minutes close to falling asleep standing.

“So what… What are you going to do?” Zabini asks, leaning against the wall, and looks a little too fondly at Malfoy, “I mean, I know it doesn’t feel like it… but it is your own choice.”

“I don’t know… My mother, who doesn’t agree with him, mind you, even though she grew up in the family that she did… She says that the only important thing is family, and support, and even though that sounds absolutely splendid, I have no idea what it means.” Harry almost turns on his heel and leaves, because Malfoy’s voice is so raspy, and scared, and tired, and the sudden realization that Harry’s listening in on a very private, heartfelt, conversation hits him. The only reason he stays, Harry tells himself, is because they are talking about Draco’s father, aren’t they? And Draco’s father’s a bloody wizard nazi, and Harry should get any intel he can.

“I know what you mean… Crowley, what’s that muggle saying? ‘God knows I know’?” Zabini grimaces, scratching the back of his neck, closing his eyes momentarily, “But, Draco… It really is our decisions, no matter how bloody scary that is.”

“It doesn’t feel like it is though, does it? And I know it in theory is, but… it isn’t. It’s all a bloody mess of family duties and expectations and hate, and I just want to… It doesn’t make any sense, any of it!” Malfoy’s voice goes from silent and tired, to angry and affronted. “You know first year when… When I tried to befriend… My dad looked like he wanted to strangle me when I came home for Christmas. How’s that for a bloody choice? Merlin, I – I can’t… “ Something glides over his eyes, and his hand flies back against the wall, as to hold himself upwards. “Blaise I…” Malfoy’s breath is rapid, almost like he can’t seem to fill his lungs with enough air, he’s practically gasping, and he’s leaned against the wall now. His hands are clutching at the hems of his shirt, so tightly his already pale fingers have gone paper white in the darkness, his eyes on anything but Zabini, as if he’s terribly embarrassed by his distress.

Harry, who knows what Hermione gets like after days of studying and no sleep, knows what Neville gets like after classes or encounters with Snape, knows how he, himself, gets after… well after a lot of situations and sometimes after absolutely nothing, recognizes the quick breaths and panicked eyes and buckling knees and knows for a fact that Malfoy’s having a panic attack.

He remembers his first panic attack vividly, like it scarred him permanently, like he’ll always remember the fear and pain and thought of _oh my god I think I’m dying_. It was the summer before he turned ten, a few weeks before break would be over, and Uncle Vernon had laid him a new one about something horribly stupid, which Harry, in his trauma, can’t seem to remember. But Uncle Vernon was so angry, screaming and throwing things, that some of the neighbors had called the police on them. Harry knew though, the second that officer turned up at the front door, that if he as much as sniffled, did anything besides smile and play happy family, it would be over for him. (Harry knows now – although he wasn’t so sure at the time – that his uncle would never hurt him too badly, possibly more in fear of his reputation, his family’s reputation, than anything else.) So Harry wiped his tears and told the officer that the yelling was merely Uncle Vernon getting a little too into his favorite TV program, which was an terrible lie, really, because they didn’t even have a TV at the time. But the officer didn’t check Harry’s statement to see if it checked up, just gave him a bored, forced, smile and left to have a word with Aunt Petunia. And as soon as the officer left, Harry fell apart, like he’d never done before, on the bathroom floor. Tears and blood and absolute panic.

“Draco, I’m sorry if this is a terribly stupid question… But are you quite ok?” Zabini sounds rather scared, Harry notes.

Malfoy takes a few seconds, but finally meets Zabini’s eye. He looks terrified, and like he might start crying any moment. He opens his mouth to speak, lets it hang open for a moment, but closes it again when no words come out. He’s clearly so panicked he’s gone none-verbal, and his body looks like it can’t quite handle its own weight, looks like it’s sagging against the brick wall.

“Draco? Should I get madam Pomfrey? I don’t know what’s going on and you’re freaking me out!” Zabini takes a step towards Malfoy, and upon seeing how Malfoy practically cowers away from him, steps back two steps and looks rather conflicted. Harry wonders if Zabini has ever seen Malfoy like this, and then feels his own panic rise as he wonders if anyone has, if even Malfoy has.

It’s not as if Harry’s too good at dealing with his own panic, when he’s like that, when he’s by himself. Normally, he just sweats and cries and screams and breaks until the wave rides out, until he’s left so empty and tired he passes out. But he knows how to deal with Hermione, with Neville, and probably how to deal with Malfoy.

And Harry, who knows, _oh_ he knows, _needs_ to do something to help. _Now_.

He can’t just spring out of nowhere, really, because then they’ll know he’s been spying on them, and it might freak out Malfoy even more. Harry slowly starts moving backwards around the corner, wishing he hadn’t put on slippers so that his steps would be even quieter, but Malfoy and Zabini make no sign of noticing.

Zabini looks almost pained now, like he wants to reach out and comfort his friend, but like he’s scared Malfoy may explode if he as much as moves.

When Harry’s safely out of sight, he rips the cloak off, stuffs it behind a statue and brings out his wand. He has no idea what he plans to do. All he knows is that no one, not even a git like Malfoy, deserves to feel like he is right now, and certainly no one deserves to be without comfort and help. Harry knows it isn’t really Zabini’s fault that he doesn’t know what to do, but Harry can’t help but feel angry at the thought of Malfoy having no one around him who knows how to help him. He walks around the corner again, making as much noise as he can, to avoid startling them. Zabini’s head snaps up to look at him, and his expression goes from surprised, to annoyed, to what Harry can only describe as gratefulness. _He’s glad he isn’t alone anymore_ , Harry thinks.

“Potter.” Zabini says, giving him a stiff nod. “What a marvelous time for a stroll.”

Harry pretends he hasn’t seen the state of Malfoy yet, resists the urge to look at him, to see how he’s reacting to Harry’s presence.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Harry asks, as if he isn’t, too, out of bed. Zabini gives him an amused smile, which looks rather forced.

“Hunting poor muggle-born first years, Potter.” He snaps, his gaze going back to Malfoy, whom, Harry can’t help but look, has squeezed his eyes shut and seems to be hyperventilating now.

Zabini opens his mouth again, but then closes it, and sends Harry a rather helpless look.

“I think he needs help.” He says, shocking Harry with the desperation in his tone. “I don’t really know what has gotten into him, but he seems like he’s in a terrible state… doesn’t he?”

Malfoy lets out an angry whine, as if to let them know he does not like Zabini’s way of speaking to Harry like Malfoy _isn’t right there_.

“He’s having a panic attack.” Harry states, and then wonders for a second if he’s about to do what he thinks he is. Wonders if Malfoy’s panic may be similar to his, and if maybe the same things that help Harry will help him. And then he thinks _fuck it at least I will have tried_ , and steps forward, grabbing Malfoy and hugging him tightly.

Malfoy’s body goes a little stiff in Harry’s arms, for a few seconds – a few horrible seconds where Harry wonders if maybe he’s making it all worse rather than better and maybe Malfoy’s going to sock him in the face – but then he goes limp, defeated, and falls against Harry’s chest. Zabini makes a strangled kind of sound from behind them, but Harry decides not to worry about that right now; he’s too focused on how Malfoy’s shaking against him. His chest is flat and warm and firm, and his arms – which Harry hadn’t noticed are gripping his upper arms so tightly it kind of hurts – are skinny but strong beneath soft sleeves. Malfoy is solid and kind of smells like pumpkin juice and he’s terribly, undeniably, _male_. A boy. Fourteen and scared, and Harry, who’s scared and unhappy even when he isn’t, wants, for just a second, to hold onto him so tight he might squeeze the stress and fear right out of Malfoy’s tense muscles.

He’s too busy with his own thoughts to notice that he’s pulled them both down in a sitting position and he’s whispering, chanting really, in Malfoy’s ear.

“Four seconds in, hold for four and then breathe out for four.” It’s what Hermione always tells him, she’s read all she can find on coping mechanisms and techniques, and it works for Harry most of the time. He repeats it again, and again, and again, in the calmest voice he can muster. Malfoy’s still shaking, but his breathing is calming down, and he’s kind of… fit himself into Harry’s arms, against his chest, like a puzzle piece.

Harry tries _really_ hard not to think about it.

“Zabini,” Harry speaks without turning his head in the slightest, “You can go back to the dungeons now.” He hears Zabini move to protest, but doesn’t let him. “I’ll escort Malfoy back there myself, if he wants to, or to the hospital wing, if he’d rather stay the night there, afterwards.”

Zabini doesn’t move for about five minutes, seems to want to say something more, but then sighs, “If you need me, Malfoy… or need anything, just wake me up.” He says, so softly and fondly, Harry can’t quite recognize it as the same boy he’s known for years.

When Zabini’s footsteps have faded into silence, and Malfoy’s breathing is relatively normally, deep breaths in and deep breaths out, Harry remembers what he always does when he feels like he’s too big for his own skin, and like his mind is floating away from him and he can’t quite grasp anything.

“Mal-“ Harry catches himself, ponders for a few seconds, “Draco, I want you to think of five things you can see… five visual things. Can you do that?” He keeps his voice soft, calm against Malfoy’s ear (which grazes against Harry’s lips and is shockingly cold, although Malfoy’s cheek is hot against his own). Malfoy moves his head so slightly, Harry barely catches it, in a nod.

He gives him a few seconds, tries to listen to his breathing, “Then, when you’re finished… Think of four things you can touch.” Waits. “Three things you can hear.” Waits again, hot breath against his ear and something wet, tears maybe, against his cheek. “Two things you can smell.” Definitely tears, wet and hot. Harry waits. “And lastly, one thing you can taste.”

The thought that hits him next is so shocking it leaves him dizzy _; I could kiss him right now._

It’s a rushed and stupid thought really, because Harry hates Malfoy, and he doesn’t like boys, does he? He tries to force the fluttery feeling in his chest to go away, resonates with the fact that Harry’s never kissed anyone before, and it feels nice comforting someone, feels nice to hug someone tightly and whisper in their ear, and be useful. Harry vaguely remembers Hermione telling Neville once that holding once breath could stop a panic attack, and then again; _I should kiss him._

Harry doesn’t have time to argue with his thoughts, because Malfoy is suddenly pushing weakly against his chest, sniffling loudly and rolling his head back to stare at Harry with heavy-lidded bloodshot eyes. Harry lets himself get pushed, moves away, but not too far, and folds his hands together in his lap.

Malfoy looks angry, and tense, but not panicking anymore, and Harry supposes it’s a good change.

“Potter I…” He sounds weak, pathetic really, but his teeth are gritted, “You didn’t have to… I…” He seems to struggle for words. Harry can’t help but think about the constant rambling that normally falls out of Malfoy’s mouth, every minute of the day.

“It’s ok… Really.” Harry says, carefully watching Malfoy’s reaction, then, “I get them too.”

There’s a long silence then, where Malfoy’s brows narrow and his shoulders tense, and he seems so angry. His hands are shaking, his cheeks, wet with tears, going splotchy, a mix of pale and red.

“Well… It’s ok then, isn’t it? I’m not crazy! I’m just… just as crazy as you?” Harry flinches like Malfoy physically slaps him, but stays silent, lets Malfoy air his feelings and thoughts. “Is that really supposed to make me feel better, Potter? Merlin, you’re such a wanker!” His hands find his hair and he’s pulling at it, making the ends stand up slightly.

Harry thinks about the first time he realized Hermione got panic attacks too, and how awfully happy he’d been to not be so alone in it all. And then Neville was there too, with him. He had people to take comfort in, to help and get help from, and to talk to (who would properly understand.) So _yes_ , Harry thinks, _it is supposed to make you feel better._

Malfoy stands up so quick, it makes Harry jump, and when he looks up at him, he looks a mix between heartbroken and furious.

“No need to follow me Potter, I know the way. You don’t have to fucking... I’m not…” He sighs, pulling at his hair again, and his eyes are cold and set. “You could stop playing hero for once in your life, Potter.” Then he turns and stomps down the dark corridor and, even though Harry probably isn’t supposed to notice it, he’s relieved to see Malfoy slipping into the secret passageway that lead directly to the hospital wing.

Harry sits there a little longer, the floor seems cold and hard all of a sudden, thinking. _I wasn’t trying to be the hero_ , he thinks, a little sad, _I was trying to be a friend._

And as if it’s some sort of agreement between them, to never mention, to forget, any friendly moment they’ve shared, Harry walks back to his dormitory, slips into bed, and never talks about that night again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love feedback. Please let me know your thoughts.  
> Hope everyone had a healthy holiday season, and respected their bodies and minds without having to limit OR force themselves to anything. You deserve to eat, you deserve to be happy, you deserve to feel safe and comfortable.  
> Happy new year to you all!


	3. Three - Sixth Year - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate making excuses, especially when it's the same damn excuse every time, but depression is kicking my butt, so this chapter was put on the shelves for a bit longer than expected.  
> this is a shorter - and dare i say shittier - chapter but i got this idea from the film (because the "is this how you feel when you see Ginny and Dean together" scene isn't in the book) and i had to write it. There will be a second chapter of year six bc i think it's The Year of drarry moments. 
> 
> This chapter is not edited, I will come back to do that soon.

Harry can’t help but feel like his entire life is coming undone as he watches Hermione slam the door shut, and Ron sends him an annoyed look, as if saying ‘can you believe her’. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Ron was never supposed to look at anyone else with that look that normally was saved for Hermione, and only Hermione. Harry was supposed to always third-wheel with his two best friends, and he was supposed to be ok with it, bloody thrilled actually, because as long as they were happy, he was. And his heart feels like it isn’t really beating properly because Hermione loves Ron, and Ron loves her, but they’re both stupid and scared, and Ron is an insensitive ass sometimes, and Harry loves them both. He’s always thought that some of the reason Hermione even bothered befriending them in the first place was because she fancied Ron – even though she claimed it was because they saved her from that troll their first year. Harry doesn’t mind much if it was because of Ron, because her crush landed him a brilliant best friend. They’re his family, and this significant little choice Ron took, kissing Lavender back, feels like a deadly threat to the only happiness Harry has ever felt.

Ron is looking at him with a mix of anger and confusion on his face, “What the bloody –“

Harry cuts him off, can’t let him get the upper hand, “You’re an idiot, Ron.”

Ron puffs his cheeks up, so he looks like a big red balloon, and narrows his eyes at Harry. Harry suspects Ron knows, deep down, what caused Hermione’s anger, but he’s too proud, or too insecure, to admit it. No matter the reason, Harry knows to stick to the weakest in the pack’s side, so he doesn’t let Ron say another world, just pushed past him on the way out the door.

It doesn’t take him long to find Hermione. He hears her cries before he sees her, tucked away behind a statue not far from the common room. It’s the same statue, the make-out statue, from that night two years ago and Harry suddenly sees Malfoy’s blood-shot and wet eyes and furious mouth. Thinking about that night makes something painful twist in Harry’s guts, and he has to brace himself again the cool stone of the statue to collect himself again. He has to remind himself that this trip down memory-lane will have to wait as Hermione grabs for his leg and lets out a heart-wrenching sob, and anyhow, thinking about Malfoy lately only makes something hot and uncomfortable settle in the pits of his stomach, as if just the mere thought of him makes Harry want to throw up. Also, it gives him phantom-pains in his nose.

“Hi, Hermione.” He sits down in front of her with his back to the statue-pedestal, trying to block her from view in case some noisy Gryffindors are lurking nearby. He loves his house, almost as much as his house loves gossip. Hermione lets out a choked sob, and covers her face with the sleeves of her purple sweater. She looks so small in front of him, curled-up and crying. Like a child. Then again, Harry supposes she still is a child, and then the painful throb of his heart intensifies. “I’m sorry. Please breathe.” He grabs her shoulders carefully and pulls her towards him with little force, letting her know she can pull away if she doesn’t want him to hold her, but instead, she lunges forward and shoves her wet face into Harry’s chest. He places his hands against her back, right between her ribs and tries to check her breathing, incase she’s close to a panic attack – it’s not something he thinks about, he just kind of grew used to doing it after years of knowing her.

“S’not fair…” She’s mumbling against the material of his thick sweater, but he catches it, nods with his cheek again her hair, and although her curls tickle his nose, he doesn’t move. His own comfort is the least of his priorities right now.

“No.” He doesn’t know what else to say. He hasn’t ever been in a situation like this, doesn’t have the first-hand experience that would let him know what to do – what to say – right now. So he just holds her while she cries and shakes against him, rubbing her back, and every now and then brushing his lips against her forehead in an attempt of showing his affection.

Harry loves her. She’s the most brilliant and lovely and compassionate, and of course the smartest, person Harry’s ever known, and sometimes he catches himself forgetting how bloody lucky he is to have her – to be so close to her. She’s the sister he never had, and even though Ron is the brother he never had, he’s always had an deeper emotional relationship with her. She’s easier to talk to about the heavy stuff that always consumes Harry’s mind, and it’s not that Harry doesn’t feel like Ron cares or understands, but Ron gets all funny about it – feelings – and tends to only makes weird noises and nods his head really fast when Harry opens up about something and it makes him feel weird. Hermione is the person he goes to to ground him, when he's feeling vulnerable or panicked and he needs a helpful and supportive person.

Harry loves Ron. He’s funny and brave and amazing. They have a different connection, than what any of them have to Hermione, or anyone else, for that sake. They just understand each other, don’t need words most of the time. Sometimes, Ron just looks at him and Harry knows. Hermione finds it creepy, how Ron always seems to know what Harry’s plotting or what he wants, or how Harry sometimes finishes Ron sentences or answers questions he hasn’t asked yet. They also share a lot more interest between them, which makes hanging out easier than it is with Hermione, whom normally just wants to read or finish her work. His friendship with Ron is more aloof, funnier and much more easy-going, than the structured, caring and helpful friendship he has with Hermione. Ron is the person he goes to when he wants to feel normal, when he's been feeling out of it for too long and just needs someone to distract him with jokes and a round of chess, a few playful distractions.

He loves both of them so damn much and he needs them, to keep sane and to enjoy life maybe, and he’s about to open his mouth and say something, _anything_ , when Hermione pulls away from him and looks at him with big puffy wet brown eyes.

“Is this how you feel? When… When you see Ginny with Dean?” Her voice is clearer than he expected, and she looks at him with waiting eyes, and the question leaves him feeling singed and burnt-out.

In his mind, there’s no imitate answer. Because although seeing Ginny and Dean together makes Harry want to throw a fit and punch Dean and burn the whole school down, he can’t imagine it’s the same feeling Hermione has right now. She seems empty, lost, broken down, not angry or vengeful. Harry searches deep down in him for some other feeling than violence when he pictures Ginny and Dean kissing and although he feels full of adrenaline and a need to separate them, there’s some sadness there too, some need for comfort and to pull Ginny into his own hands and make her swear she doesn’t really want Dean.

“Or…” Hermione says before he answers, and he focuses back on her, rails back from his thoughts, and there’s a small, careful, smile on her lips, and she’s holding Harry’s hand, and he hadn’t noticed. “Or when you see Malfoy with Pansy?”

Harry feels like all the air in his lungs has been knocked out of him and he stares at Hermione’s serious face without breathing for a long time. A weird bubbly feeling climbs up his chest and he’s scared he’s going to have a panic attack but then he starts laughing, hysterically, holding his stomach and dropping his head back against the hard stone behind him and _bloody hell what? Malfoy?_ Hermione looks a little unamused, but Harry cannot stop laughing, even though he doesn’t find anything about this funny.

“Harry… Don’t freak out on me I just thought I’d… Well you always go all stuff and broody when you see them together and…” She stops, looks at Harry with narrowed eyes, squeezes his hand in hers, and he gets the sudden urge to rip his hand away and flee the scene before this gets any more painful, “Well you always get broody when Malfoy’s around, but you’ve been like that for years so that’s not something worth noticing. It’s just that this year, it’s gotten more noticeable… Like that time Pansy held Malfoy’s hand over breakfast and you got so aggravated you made your bowl of oatmeal explode… And Seamus asked me, on our way to potions, if you maybe had a thing for Pansy and –“

Harry lets out a sigh and rubs his eyes, “Wait… Pansy? You think I like Pansy?” He lets out another laugh, but Hermione looks at him with the same unamused stare and the laughter dies in his throat.

“No.” She groans, “It doesn’t matter what I think if you don’t think the same thing… You know?”

But Harry really doesn’t. He takes a few moments to think about it, and without meaning to, his mind slips to images of Pansy and Malfoy together that year. They’d been awfully close after coming back this summer, and although Malfoy always had his friends around him, Zabini, Crabbe, Goyle, even Timothy Nott, but Pansy always seemed to be around. When Harry really thought about it, he couldn’t remember seeing Malfoy a single moment alone, without her on his arm or fixing his hair or whispering to him in hushed tones, and the realization made his heart beat painfully against his ribs.

But there was something else about their close friendship, that Harry hadn’t really thought about before now; Pansy looked at Malfoy with this distinct look whenever Malfoy wasn’t looking. It wasn’t longing, or really love, but fear and sadness. And Harry didn’t know if there was some sad tale of unrequired love, but something about that look made his skin itch and his mind buzz, and a part of him – the same part who always put his nose where it didn’t belong – wanted to figure it out.

“No, no I don’t think I know, Hermione.” He says at last, because thinking about Malfoy makes him want to throw up, and his heart is pounding loudly against his chest, and he worries that Hermione is going to hear it and keep asking questions.

She doesn’t, just sighs, gives him a nod and starts standing up, “Well, then I don’t know either.” She offers Harry her hand and helps him up. “I’m tired, so I’m just going to go up to bed.” Before Harry has the chance to reply, she pulls him in for a hug. “Thank you, Harry. You’re a good friend. To the both of us.”

Harry feels his heart swell with love, and he prays to whatever’s out there that no matter what happens when they wake up in the morning that he’ll never, for any reason, loose his friends, and that love won’t tear them apart. He follows Hermione back to the common room, where the party has died down, but not finished. A few people are sitting in front of the fire, talking and laughing, while some are having a loud chess tournament. Harry notes how a few people are missing – Ron and Ginny the most noticeable of the bunch, and he hopes Hermione doesn’t notice. She makes no sign of it, just gives Harry a wet smile and his hand one last squeeze before disappearing up the stairs to the girls common room.

**Author's Note:**

> May not be completely canon-based. I do not own any of these characters, or the plot.


End file.
